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The stream (all workshops)

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Through these years I've become weary
as ever upward wound my trail
until at last my sight my eyes are bleary
and my tiring muscles fail.

But I have this final hill to top
so I slowly stumble on
knowing that I dare not stop
striving toward the place I'm drawn.

I know that before very long
my feet will get me to the summit,
to that place where my soul belongs.
I can almost now envision it.

Flashes of the BBC

under thunderstorms and candle light
we wait, a whimpering dog and me,
listening to old wartime broadcasts through
the infernal static of an
ancient battery powered radio

( this is where it gets eerie)

It begins to feel like 1942

I start listening intently
trying to catch every nuance
wondering how our guys are doing
hoping for some good news
twitching in anticipation

I was hearing a story I already knew
but was still anxious about how it would end

funny how that is, getting so involved

Time Tested Traditions:

We are products of our forebears nurture
Bearers of our traditional culture
Not confined by a religious stricture
But our volition and basic nature

Not affected by amoral censure
Nor by special interest conjecture
Deflating any attempts to puncture
Our composure with our victory sure

Scars Like Stars To Guide Us

What if these regrets
Were not quicksand
But stepping stones?

The up instead of down
Button in the elevator?

What if this pain
Was not collateral damage,
But the strategy
For my success?

What if these scars
Were the writing on the wall,
That spoke a better word
Than “mene, mene, tekel, parsin”?

What if I was not found lacking
But instead strong?

What if I grew stronger and stronger
Instead of weaker and weaker?

No. 17251

"Failure, the artiste manque or the mediocre politician--they experience the real death." Sigmund Freud

The REM mirror's
bent tubes synthesized
in snake pegs
of archipelagic
ice hieroglyphs;

(hear the eglantine washerwomen
call breakfast with gold spoons)

the hierophant C-flat
spilt in a tide pod
rainbow suit worn
in a night Mass’ oval paucity.

A date unrealized
and of silt gravity,
split on all sides
by holofoil wings
of indigo aeons,


your words are like a rough rope slowly wrapping around my neck,
your touch is like poison haunting my head,
your absence is a relief like balloon releasing air,
your presence is an ocean drowning me beyond repair,

your around every corner,
not a day goes by without your remark,
but i've grown stronger,

a fire has started inside me, a little spark,
an idea rung in my head,
locking you out,
and running away...


what is losing?
is it finite, infinite,
tangible, intangible
physical, metaphysical

or of something not found
as funny as spectacles on the head
thoughts, memories having no shape or sound

or those sunken feelings of
ignorance, misfortune
being a desert rose
a kid separated from mother

or that half finished coke
shared with a stranger
you met on the train?

don't curse, just smile
get rid of that stupid feeling
feel light, move on
put behind the lost baggage

Searching For A Conspiracy

I've heard about hidden valleys
and secret gardens
paradisal islands
and mystical mountain sanctuarys

not interested!

forbidden zones intrigue me more
the mystery of why so named
who, or what, lurks in such shadowy strangeness

the "dark web"
area 51
my neighbors locked shed

my humdrum life yearns, seeks, demands
exciting and exhilerating answers

more than likely, I'll just find disappointment

and bad judgement

Footsteps in the corridor

the scent of lavender on the dew
through cascading rolling mountains of joy
surface through the moon in the tender month of June
we have been this way before
footsteps in the corridor
out on the patio a black cat
the smell of fresh paint permeates my inner senses
traces of lime in my beer
a rip torn onto its heightened view
shadows block the vortex of the eye
shaped through the dreams in her hair my pretty child
choose the day
the night was far spent in calamity

One at a Time

Now I read books that I had been saving for later.
Books from the time when I thought I live forever
and was concerned to grow bored.

Now I know even if there is tomorrow,
even if it is a century long, it might not be enough
if I won’t stop postponing to do what I want.

The word postponing reminds me of a post office,
Bukowski I read often and like very much,
and a pony I never had but wanted at the age of five.


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